more practice writing

If you don’t know what I mean by practice writing read my last post.

He already had a history by the time he first saw her. Perhaps they all did each and every one of them. Looking at her now, with her wide innocent eyes, he wandered at her history.

Where had she come from? By the look of her he would guess some foreign mysterious place, a place made up of legends and myths, a place that only partially existed.


Why had she left? Letting his imagination run now, he thought perhaps she was running from an evil sorcerer, no, a sorceress, who was jealous of her beauty and her goodness, like a modern day Andromeda. Or better yet she had been kidnapped, taken ruthlessly by some evil prince. That meant someone needed to save her. She needed to be rescued and someone must be her hero.

What was her name? he thought. It would be something exotic, something like Isa, Yasmine or Malia. That was it, Malia. It suited her perfectly. Malia, the mystic creature from a mystic land, she was so out of place here in this crowded street. Her profile seemed so wrong against the backdrop of skyscrapers and food carts. He would see her face in a land full of trees and rivers, trees with all the colors of the autumn falling around her. That was where she belonged.